


Fun House

by swilki



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Asylum, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Black Character(s), Bondage, Depression, Doctor - Freeform, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Erotica, F/M, Female Character of Color, Jeffrey Dean Morgan - Freeform, Jeffrey Dean Morgan/OC, Love, Mental Disorder, Messed up love, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Sex, Sexual Intercourse, Torture, abusive, cop, doctor-patient, explicit - Freeform, insane, insane asylum, mature - Freeform, patient, police officer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 13:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12818472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilki/pseuds/swilki
Summary: Katherine McKinley has been diagnosed with a crippling mental disorder that leads her to an insane asylum. There, a charismatic doctor by the name of Dr. Jeffries uses his unusual and out-dated methods to try and cure her. Katherine must find out how to live a normal life, but it seems her doctor doesn't want her to leave.Ever.Venture through Katherine's struggles in the asylum and her dark attraction towards her doctor. Will she ever leave the asylum? Is Dr. Jeffries good or bad? Find out.





	1. Cast

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very daunting story for me to write since I do not have a mental illness and might appear insensitive at times. I'm trying my best to portray schizophrenia as a serious mental disorder, not an excuse to write a story about a doctor and his patient. I'm more than happy to receive fact checking on anything and if I portrayed something ill-suited to the environment. This is supposed to shock, but cause inner turmoil between right and wrong, not to romanticize mental illnesses. Thank you for reading.

~Nathalie Emmanuel~

As

~Katherine McKinley~

 

~Maggie Gyllenhaal~ 

As

~Nichole Ashley~ 

~Jeffrey Dean Morgan~

As

~Doctor Travis Jeffries~

~Lizzie Brocheré~

As

~Riley Thatcher~

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Apple Pie Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into the every day life of Katherine McKinley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very daunting story for me to write since I do not have a mental illness and might appear insensitive at times. I'm trying my best to portray schizophrenia as a serious mental disorder, not an excuse to write a story about a doctor and his patient. I'm more than happy to receive fact checking on anything and if I portrayed something ill-suited to the environment. This is supposed to shock, but cause inner turmoil between right and wrong, not to romanticize mental illnesses. Thank you for reading.

I was fourteen years old when I had my first episode. 

Seizures were the last thing on my parents’ minds at our family picnic in the park that Sunday. Charlie, my chocolate labrador, had been acting funny when my brother and I started throwing around a football. We assumed he was just excited to play with us, and that’s why he was trying to jump on me. Quite forcefully, though.

And then I felt a prickling sensation beginning in my legs, and then travelling to my head. My mind was a bit foggy from not sleeping for the past few days due to homework overload, so I ignored it. Until, of course, I collapsed.

I don’t remember anything after my head hit the ground. Just waking up in a hospital somewhere. Apparently, I had a seizure right after I fell due to lack of sleeping, Charlie lying on top of me. He had predicted the incident and was trying to get me to lay down so I wouldn’t hurt myself like I did. All I got was a massive headache afterword, thankfully. The sleeping issue didn’t cause my epilepsy - it just triggered it. It was passed down to me by my grandfather. The dreadful bastard.

Tests were run, countless vials of my blood examined, physical examines taken. If another nurse tells me to pee in a cup, I will sincerely go insane. My wealthy parents consulted numerous doctors and specialists, some even questionable. One of them even asked for a vial of my sweat. Needless to say, we went to another specialist.

Six years later, I’m in my own apartment, with my own service dog, and my own job. Being the assistant of a popular book publisher was all I ever wanted to be since I was little and found out that I loved writing. I mean, I’ve never been published, yet, but I get to make author’s dreams come true. Daniel, my book publisher boss, is not easily persuaded, though.

The sharp staccato ring emitting from my cellphone jars me into reality. I look down at my coffee table, noticing the annoying face of my boss on it. Sighing, I set down my steaming coffee mug onto a coaster and pick up my phone to answer.

“Katherine!” I flinch away from the speaker, ears ringing from his furious tone. What’s gotten into him? This was unusual. “Get the stack of manuscripts on your desk done by tomorrow morning! Got it?”

Stress weighs down my shoulders. “Of course, Daniel. Anything else?”

He doesn’t respond. In fact, my phone isn’t even making any noise that would indicate him hanging up or him breathing on the other line. This has happened way too many times with him lately. I look down at my phone to see it blank. Huh, I must have hung up. 

Dialing his number, I press my phone back to my ear. His voicemail picks up instead. Stella, my service dog, barely glances up at me from her cozy dog bed in the corner.

“I guess it wasn’t important,” I mumble, dropping my phone onto the couch I’m sitting on and stand up, ready to pull up my sleeves to read through three manuscripts by 8:00 A.M. tomorrow. I check my watch to see that it’s already six in the evening, giving me fourteen hours to finish if I don’t sleep. Stella, my service dog, barely glances up at me from her cozy dog bed in the corner. I give her a soothing pet on the head before walking to my desk.

This’ll be a fun night.

 

It’s three in the morning by the time that I’ve finished reading, annotating lightly, and filling out a few papers for each manuscript. I find refuge for a few hours by sleeping, until it’s time to face this tiresome day. 

My daily routine as Daniel’s assistant consists of dressing nicely, of course. I dawn on a pair of nice-fitting, gray palazzo pants with a cute white blouse, and some black heels. My first stop in the morning is the coffee shop a few blocks from my apartment, snuggled between two brick buildings. Daniel likes his coffee weak, while I prefer mine black with half milk and loads of foam. I also grab an energy bar and some lunch for later.

It’s a dreary day in Wisconsin. The clouds are gray, but the air is heavy and humid. I hurry back to my car to get to the tiny building of my occupation. The building’s exterior is sleek, a mere three stories, but one of many buildings from this company. It just so happened to be in this medium-sized city so it isn’t anything like the hundred story building back in New York. My private office is at the top on the same floor as Daniel, his glass doors wide open, as if inviting me in.

I drop off my coffee and food in my office before carrying the manuscripts and his coffee into his office. He’s lounging in his desk chair, ruffling through leaves of paper on his disorganized glass desk. It looks as if a mini tornado has swept by it.

“Uh, hey, Daniel,” I awkwardly announce my presence. We’ve only been working together for nearly two years and I have no idea how his attitude towards me has changed since last night’s call. He looks up and replies with a “Hi”, returning to his search. Okay? I walk up to his desk, setting the manuscripts down, getting his attention. “I finished the manuscripts you wanted me to have done by today, along with their paperwork and notes. With the sci-fi one - I really think we should scrap that, you know? There’s way too many aliens and space guns that he writes about to cover his inadequate passion for the story.”

I hold my breath and then remember that I’m still holding his coffee. “Oh, um, here,” I say and set it down on his desk next to his computer monitor.

He gives me this weird look, like I just became an alien from that awful four hundred page manuscript. “Katherine, take a seat,” he orders. I cautiously do as he says. Is this how I get fired? Am I getting fired? I’ve worked for this company for nearly two years now, rising from the front office to his right-hand woman. What have I done wrong? My blood begins to boil even before he speaks. His dark brown eyes flit to the thick stack of papers I just presented. 

“Is there a problem, sir?” I inquire, barely able to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“No,” he reassures quickly. And then he seems to rethink. “Well, maybe. I’m not sure, Katherine.” He pulls the stack to himself, flipping through my notes, glancing at me once in awhile. Then he leans back in his expensive-looking chair. “You’ve done exceptional work with these manuscripts in such a short time, but-”.

I’m so fired.

“-I never told you to finish them by today.”

Tap restart. Brain loading, processing this information. Brain malfunction.

There’s a lot of blinking and mouth opening then closing on my part for half a minute. “But, I, uh. You . . . ca-called me last night. Telling me finish them, sir. I don’t understand?” I stutter out.

He tilts his head, and then picks up his phone, scrolling for a minute or so. Disbelief turns back into irritation. So he calls me all angry, and then now forgets? Like, “Oops, I accidently told you to read three lengthy manuscripts that would have taken a week instead of the eight hours you devoted to finishing them in one sitting.” No way.

His phone is a foot away from my face, showing his calls. “I never called you yesterday, Katherine,” he urges. It’s true. The only person in his call history that called him yesterday is some woman named Sherry.

“There must be a mistake,” I groan, grabbing my own phone from my pocket to see my call history, the freaking history showing that he was telling the truth. I slump back in my chair and put a hand to my forehead, sighing heavily. So I stayed up last night for nothing.

“Katherine,” he urges, bringing my attention back to him. “This has happened, what, three or four times now? You need to stop stressing over work.”

Nevertheless, he accepts my hard work and I have to assure him that I’m feeling well enough to work my twelve hour shift today. I trail back to my office next to his, head down in exhaustion. He gives me a lighter load today, I notice. Just a few children’s books to review and a few scheduling arrangements for him. Throughout the morning, I munch on my energy bar and go through more than enough cups of cheap office coffee to keep my eyes open.

My afternoon is soured by this author lady who insists on trying to bribe me into publishing her novel. Of course, I decline and ignore any of her future calls.

I’m nearly starving when lunchtime comes around, letting my wild side come out and devour my ham sandwich and bag of bland chips. Nearly falling asleep slumped over, I decide to part from coffee in favor of a 5-hour energy drink, getting charged up for the next eight hours. 

The day drags by until it’s finally time to leave the office. I check my calender real quick, purse in hand and my work bag in the other. My shoulders drop for the second time today. There’s a hangout my girlfriends planned for tonight at the local bar to celebrate my friend completing college. And of course, I can’t miss it.

Instead of heading home, I decide to fix my curly brown hair and to unbutton my blouse a bit, an attempt at casual. It’s a short drive to the bar, just a ten minute drive in traffic and then I’m there. The neon red sign declaring that the building is called  _ Hal’s Drinks _ flashes in the dark night. I step in to immediately spot my group of friends laughing in the corner. They’ve already ordered drinks and are mildly drunk.

“Hey!” I greet them, hugging each and every one of the four. We act like we haven’t just seen each other a few days ago. 

Jenny, a bombshell blonde, grins at me. “Hello there, hard-working Kathy!” I roll my eyes, smiling back. “I think you need a few shots to get the night rolling and some of that tension in your shoulders gone.”

“No,” I laugh. “No, no, and no. I’m driving, I can’t drink.”

She nudges my shoulder. “Kelly is the safe driver tonight, don’t worry. You’ve been it for too long, honey. Now let’s get wasted!”

Groaning, I playfully act defeated, allowing her to lead me to the bar. She orders several shots, just as she promised, and we down them together, catching up on the last few days. Turns out, she met  _ another _ guy who has already declared his love for her, so she dumped him, of course. That’s Jenny for you. She lives life to the fullest, living fast and hard, trying to experience everything other than settling down.

Our three other friends are on the dance floor, seeming to catch Jenny’s eyes. Before I can process her train of thought, I’m being pulled onto to the center of the floor, dancing in front of her. Thrumming music pulses through our bodies, the floor vibrating from the blasting music and people dancing all over. Arms, hips, and shoulders clash, but nobody seems to care. I just focus on swinging my hips around with my arms above my head, laughing with Jenny. She slinks off with a man, eventually, leaving me alone on the dance floor.

My head is spinning from all the alcohol running through my system, blending all the colors in the room together. It looks like a beautiful painting.

_ Hey. _

I twist around with a smile, hearing a man’s voice. In my alcohol-induced trance, I don’t see any man facing me, so I go on swinging my hips, letting the music carry my body. It feels as if I’m light as a feather, drifting through the sea of people, outside.

The cool night air washes over my face, a welcome feeling for my flushed skin. I lean against the building, standing a good distance from the smokers. There’s barely any traffic out now, just a few cars every minute. Everyone is at home right now, relaxing. Wait, what is the time? My watch reads one in the morning. Sighing, I get ready to go back inside to ask Kelly to drive me home when I see a man.

He’s standing across the street, just staring. At  _ me _ . Confused and drunk, I wave shyly at him. His dark hoodie hides his face, though, his hands tucked in the pockets. He doesn’t wave back.  _ Well, rude _ . I walk back into the bar, gathering my purse and asking Kelly to drive me home. She reassures the girls that she’ll be back for them, but needs to take me home. We hop into her black Mercedes, leaving me to wonder how I’ll get to work tomorrow without my car. 

“So,” Kelly speaks up as she drives, “how was your night? Did Jenny get you drunk enough?”

We giggle. “Drunk enough to seek the pleasure of my own bed,” I tease. She smiles. 

“You know, since I just graduated from college and all that, I’m gonna need a real job,” she says slowly. I nod to let her know that I’m listening. “I was just thinking, I don’t know, if maybe, by chance, you can tell your boss about me?” She sees my shocked expression and rushes in with her words. “Not as an assistant like you, but as a planner, organizer, or something.”

My mood dwindles. “Kelly, that  _ is  _ my job as his assistant.”

She’s looking everywhere but me. “I could work the front desk then, until you become the new book publisher.”

I’m incredulous now. “Book publisher? Me? That’s not really how it works, Kelly. Daniel is still in his thirties and won’t be retiring any time soon. I mean, he might transfer, but I won’t be first chose. I’ve been working there for two years, not ten years.”

Her hesitant smile goes away. “Okay, sorry, I just thought of it. Nevermind.”

Seeing her gloomy look, I give in. “I can ask about you, recommend you to be my co-assistant of sorts. I mean, you won’t believe the shit load of work I did the other night for him. And he even said that he didn’t tell me to - nevermind, it’s a long story.” I sigh, rubbing my eyes.

But right when she’s about to smile and say something, I scream out, “Stop, Kelly!”

Utterly freaking out, she stomps on the brakes in an intersection, the man she almost ran over still standing in front of the vehicle. “What the hell, Katherine?!” she yells with a glare. 

I sit in fear, in fear of this man. He’s the same one from earlier, looking at me from across the street and not replying. “I think I’m sober now,” I whisper.

  
  


The morning comes with an unwelcome outlook. Stella cuddles up to me once I wake up. She lays down on my stomach, causing the sudden burning of vomit threatening to escape my throat. Rushing to the bathroom, I empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet, clutching my abdomen in pain from the burn. 

Now it’s time to start this fabulous day. Brushing my teeth vigorously, I use a bucket load of mint mouthwash, attempting to extinguish the putrid taste.

I stumble out of bed, stumble out of the shower, stumble out of my apartment. My eyes are barely focusing on anything as I walk to work, my flats scraping across the concrete sidewalk. Instead of getting the coffee myself, I ordered it to be sent ahead of me, the front desk person already having it when I walk in.

“Thanks,” I mumble as I grab the coffee and plastic container with my lunch in it.

“Feel better, dear,” the front desk woman calls after me.

_ She thinks I’m sick. Nope, just hungover. _

Just as I’m walking into my office to set my stuff down before giving Daniel his coffee, I scream. The same man from last night is standing in the dark corner of my office, just staring at me with his hands in his pockets. My heart beating fast, my hands lose their feeling, the coffee cups slipping from within my fingers. And then I’m falling, my mind swirling in a daze.

Daniel’s voice is echoing in the distance, even though I see his feet in front of my face. 

And then everything goes black, just like it did six years ago.


	3. Diagnosed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very daunting story for me to write since I do not have a mental illness and might appear insensitive at times. I'm trying my best to portray schizophrenia as a serious mental disorder, not an excuse to write a story about a doctor and his patient. I'm more than happy to receive fact checking on anything and if I portrayed something ill-suited to the environment. This is supposed to shock, but cause inner turmoil between right and wrong, not to romanticize mental illnesses. Thank you for reading.

I’m aware of my breathing first.

My eyelids peel open like thin leaves, stunning light violating my pupils. White is everywhere. Reaching to cover my sensitive eyes, I feel a faint tug on my right hand. There’s an IV stuck underneath my skin on top of my hand. Parched lips and throat distract me from the generous amount of wires attached to my body, having me thinking that I must have not spoken in a while. 

Next thing I notice is how heavy my body feels. It’s difficult to lift any of my limbs since I can barely feel them. It must be from the pain medicine the nurses gave me. Last time I was in the hospital for a seizure, they doped me up so much in fear that my head injury hurt more than I was telling them. But what could I have hurt this time? Scrambling my thoughts around, I remember holding steaming coffee and then falling.

Sighing softly, desperate to move my vocal cords around to make sure they still function, I lift the neckline of my hospital gown to see mild burn marks on my abdomen and chest. Letting the thin cloth fall back into place, I press the red button underneath where my right hand had been when I was sleeping, alerting the nurses.

A nurse comes rushing in, immediately asking how I was feeling. I answer honestly: I’m fine. A little disoriented, but decent. Thankfully, she doesn’t question me too long before helping me to the bathroom. After doing my business and splashing my face with some cool water, I lead my IV stand back to my cotton to sit comfortably against the wall, waiting.

My mother comes in before my father, concern all over her usually-stern face. We hug, me assuring her that I feel fine and that everything will be okay. My dad gives me a tighter hug, whispering to me that I’ll be fine. That they’ll run more tests.

I’m twenty and they’re still trying to dictate my health life.

I know that I should be flattered at their concern, but I’m an independent woman now, free from her parents’ control and living in the real world. Back when I was fourteen, I would have embraced them with tears without letting go, maybe even ask my mom to bring in Charlie, but since I’m older and Charlie has long passed away, I request to see my service dog instead.

It takes twenty minutes for my service dog, Stella, to arrive, her tail wagging excitedly at me. They allow her to lay down on the cot with me, her whining constantly and licking my hand. She must feel guilty for not being there for me, but I refuse to intermingle my work with my personal life issues.

“Good girl,” I whisper in her bronze ear. She pants and licks my face, causing me to smile and hug her.

While having my reunion with Stella, the doctor had came in to check out my vitals and then led my parents out into the hallway. I look out the glass window showing them now, but my smile drops. My mother has her hand over her mouth, while my father has his arm around her shoulder. They both look over at me, but with disappointment instead of concern. Fear strikes my heart.

The doctor comes in, but my parents stay outside, sitting with their back to me now on a bench together, on their phones. I look over at the doctor, who is in his late sixties probably and has a sympathetic expression. My fingers dig into Stella’s thick coat.

“Doctor,” I greet cautiously. “Is there something wrong?”

He has pity in his eyes now. “Sweetheart . . .”  _ Oh no. Here comes the bad news.  _ “We had run an MRI when you arrived here yesterday morning and . . . Well, there’s no simple way to say this, but . . . you appear to have schizophrenia, dear. I’m so sorry.”

Shock registers through my bones and my hands go limp. Stella nudges my arms. All I can do is blink and furrow my brows, and then unfurrow them. Denial sets in. “But-I had so many tests run on me when I was little. How did they not catch this? There must be a mistake.”

“There’s no mistaking the signs of this mental disorder.” He opens up a manila folder in his hands. “It says here you told the nurse that you were ‘spooked from seeing a man in your office when you arrived’. Is that correct?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“And that you had also gotten confused with your phone call with your boss, whom you called ‘Daniel’. You explained the whole thing to the nurse while describing the past few day’s events.” His hands snap the folder closed. “These are both signs of schizophrenia, not to mention your inter-hemispheric connections are reduced in frontal brain regions and increased in posterior brain regions.”

His words twist together into an elaborate sentence that must be intelligent by how I can’t seem to decipher them. “But I haven’t had a lot of those types of . . . symptoms before. That was just the past few days.”

“Schizophrenia is common to develop between the ages of fourteen to early thirties. There's no direct cause to why when it occurs, but it is known to be genetic.”

We spend the next hour discussion options while I persist with multiple questions such as “Does this mean I’m crazy?”, in which he would respond with a simple “No”, then I would ask what a few words meant, taking a few more minutes for him to explain them. Never have I been more confused before. It’s all going by so fast, the information swimming around in my brain - my broken brain - and not wanting to set in. My body has since gone cold with realization that I will never live a normal life like I’ve always dreamt of.

After he prescribes me Haloperidol, but warns me with the classic “don’t take more than needed” and the endless list of side-effects. I’m not overly fond of the idea of “random bleeding and bruising” occurring.

My mood dips even further when my parents walk in, the doctor practically running out of the room as if he knows what is about to happen. “You heard,” I state simply.

They nod, not really meeting me in the eyes. My mother speaks first, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “We are so sorry, darling. Your father and I have made a tough decision to-” She sobs, breaking off. Dad gently pushes her shoulder so she would exit the room. And she does.

He turns to me, eyes straight in mine now. “Your mother and I have made an appointment at the Saint Marie’s Mental Institution in a few days for you.” My mouth gapes open. “It’s not logical for you to continue working while you’re sick. Your . . . other issue will be back under control once this new issue is resolved.You'll meet there three days a week for therapy.”

Disbelief quickly turns into scalding anger. “That wasn’t your decision to make, Dad. I’m an adult with my own career to think about.”

Looking exhausted, he turns into the Don’t-Argue- Dad mode. “You can get a better paying career, we’ll pay your bills, anything that will help.”

Glaring openly, I cling onto Stella’s collar, her licking my hand again. “I will not have my  _ parents _ paying my apartment bills while I sit around talking about my feelings to a stranger.” As childish as I sound, I keep on glaring, daring my father to say that he’s going to order me around.

Sighing, he passes a hand down his face in frustration. “We’ll talk about this in the morning, Katherine. For now, Stella can stay with you since it’s her job. The nurse said that you’ll be home in two days after they’ve gotten you on your new medicine.”

He kisses my forehead and then leaves. Just like that. Defeat slumps my shoulders, having me lay back further against the wall. Stella whines and rests her paws on my chest, her glimmering eyes looking into mine.

“I won’t let them take everything away from me,” I promise, scratching her ear.

 

Within those two dreadful days of samples from my body being taken, I’m pale and clambering into my parents’ car in the back. Stella lays her head calmly on my lap, dozing off. The new medicine given to me has me exhausted and leaving me with not much of an appetite. Instead of taking me to my own apartment, my dad pulls us into the McKinley driveway. Groaning inwardly but knowing not to argue, I let them help me to my old bedroom. Mom tucks me in and I happily fall into a deep slumber.

  
  


The next few weeks are dreadful with a capital  _ D _ . Therapy had not worked for me in the past as a teenager, and they certainly don’t work now. My mother thought it best for me to see a therapist at the age of fifteen, when I had a seizure in front of my classmates at a field trip. It was mortifying to say the least.

Five blissful days of the week were all to myself, either reading in the expansive gardens on the property, or playing with Stella out back. But those two days that I’ve had to talk with  _ him  _ were awful. He has no clue how I feel and can’t even lead a proper conversation. The last session was the worst:

“So, Katherine,” he said in an ever so monotone voice. 

I had gazed awkwardly at a potted plant across the room. “Martin,” I would mutter back, acknowledging him, pleading for him to lead the session for once.

He would soon get tired of me not allowing him to pull the strings like he wanted. “How do you feel about being diagnosed with schizophrenia?”

I remember sighing softly, looking into his cold blue eyes. He’s just here to do his job, and then that’s it, so I might as well do my job. “I don’t believe that I’m schizophrenic,” I answer honestly.

His eyebrows rose. “And why is that?”

“Because people who have the misfortune of that disorder are crazy. I’m not crazy.”

“Then how would you explain you hallucinations?”

“Stress and over-active imagination.”

He openly scoffed. “And the brain scans?”

Irritation sinks it’s annoying chains into me. “How do you explain the sudden signs of this mental disorder, sir? I’ve had multiple MRI’s and CAT scans, so why didn’t they pick anything up?” My most pressing question of all.

“Schizophrenia is still a relatively new discovery in the field of mental health, Katherine.” His annoying matter-of-fact tone tugs on my nerves. “Science still hasn’t yet concluded how it is caused. The most acceptable case is hereditary.” He leans forward from his uncomfortable-looking chair to look me in the eyes. “Denial is a totally normal reaction to this sort of situation. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

That’s when I decided our hour was up. Luckily, he had come to my parents’ home, so I had simply went back into my room to read by the windowsill. Stella was there to comfort me with her wet nose and ticklish tongue. 

Now I’m in my bathroom, getting myself ready for the day. I plan on taking Stella for a long walk through the multiple trails around this beautiful land, to see all the different types of plants and bugs. She’s so used to being cooped up with me in a room, since I don’t trust my parents to look after her without me. And she needs to alert me when I’m in trouble.

After covering my fluffy afro in a shower cap as to not get it wet, I step into the blistering water of the shower. The shower head spray hits my shoulders, releasing the stress built in them from sleeping odd all night. Ever since going on those pills the doctor prescribed me, I’ve felt tired and out of it. I’ve even lost a few pounds, which I’m not so upset about, even though I’m perfectly healthy with the right balance of fat and muscle.

It’s as if time has slowed down. Each drop of the water flow becomes as loud as a pin hitting metal in a quiet room. I close my eyes shut, pressing my lips together in concentration, and rub my shoulders roughly. The water returns back to normal, my mind relaxing from the odd occurrence. Maybe it’s just the drugs. 

Embracing the cool air from pulling the shower curtain aside, I step out after shutting the water off behind me. I dry the water droplets off of my body before dropping the towel onto the ground, soaking up the water that dripped off of me. Yanking off my shower cap, I go to the mirror cabinet, opening it to reveal a variety of toiletries and medicine.

As if admitting defeat, I reach for the pill bottle marked Haloperidol, and swallow two down with a handful of sink water. I also take my regular pills as well: Loestrin and my epilepsy ones. When I close the mirror cabinet, I can’t help but stare at myself.

I’ve always been proud of my light mocha skin tone, except for now. Now my skin looks ashy, almost pale. The bags under my eyes are unbelievable, leaving shadows that look like bruises underneath my dark brown eyes. My full lips are not their normal pink-self, but more pale, with the slightest touch of pink.

Disgusted with my appearance, I turn away, pulling on a simple light blue nightgown before I get dressed for the walk. Just as I’m thinking of the outfit I’m going to wear, while my hand is on the door knob to twist it open, I hear a crash.

Stilling, I grip the knob tighter, waiting for another noise. Heavy footsteps beat against the carpeted floor outside the door in my bedroom. I put my ear to the door, straining to hear anything else. The urge to call my parents is subdued by the fact that my phone is in a safe somewhere in the house, as the therapist had suggested for the time being.

Inhaling sharply, I twist the doorknob slowly and pray that it doesn’t creak or make any sort of noise. Pressing my lips together, I think of all the possibilities that could lie behind this door. It could be my dad looking for me and accidently tipping something over. Or it could be a robber looking to steal something. Sweat collects on my hands and face. A man could have broken in to hold me hostage for money from my wealthy parents. Silently scolding myself for that farfetched theory, I pull the door open a few more inches so that I could peer in.

My heart stops.

It’s a man in a dark hoodie, pacing around my room, for once with his hands out of his pockets. His hands are gloved and his back turned to me, not giving me any indication as to his profile or skin color. Pressing myself to analyze him better, I analyze his body. He’s rather on the muscular side, his shoulders broad, his stance wide with confidence and malice. Swallowing back fear, I remember Stella.

Forgetting my inability to defend myself, I whip open the door to see what he’s looking at, to see why his back is turned to me. Fear rattles my whole body as I see him just staring at a pile of a smashed vase, my eyes flitting to his hand when I detect movement. Blood is dripping slowly from his glove, a shard of pottery gripped tightly in his grasp.

He turns around to see me, standing there, watching him. His face is still not uncovered enough for me to see clearly, but I don’t care. Without much thinking, I lunge to my right, grabbing anything and everything off of my dresser to throw at him. When I twist around to see him, he’s slowly advancing toward me, his hands reaching out. Scared shitless, I fumble around next to me, never taking my eyes off of him, and grip a perfume bottle. Throwing with all my might, I hit him in the chest. He doesn’t stop.

I grab two more random decor from the dresser and throw them at him, attempting to at least slow him. He doesn’t stop moving until he’s right in front of him. Utter fear freezes me in place when he lifts his bloodied hand to wipe it onto my face, blood dripping from my chin now.

I realize that tears are streaming from my eyes now, uncontrollably. Seeing no point in taking the offensive side unless I want to die, I scream instead.

When I refocus my view on him, I don’t see him anymore. Confusing and manic courses through my veins, leaving me a shaking, sobbing mess. I hear whimpering, but not the human kind. Looking down at my feet where the sound came from, I let out a strangled cry.

Stella gazes up at me, her stomach exposed to show mercy. Blood is splattered all over her glossy coat, gashes and glass shards glimmering in her lovely pelt. I let out a sob and fall to my knees, grabbing her head in my hands as if to ask for forgiveness. She licks my hand, making me cry louder, letting the snot and tears run down my face. 

“Help!” I scream and scream again, trying to apply pressure to some of the massive wounds on her body. “Help!”

Her eyes sort of glaze over, as if she’s falling asleep. My parents rush in to only stop in the doorway, my mother screaming. It’s obvious that I’ve done this, that I’ve committed this horrible sin of betraying man’s best friend.

I let another tear slip down my cheek as Stella weakly grazes her tongue over my hand.


	4. Dr. Travis Jeffries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very daunting story for me to write since I do not have a mental illness and might appear insensitive at times. I'm trying my best to portray schizophrenia as a serious mental disorder, not an excuse to write a story about a doctor and his patient. I'm more than happy to receive fact checking on anything and if I portrayed something ill-suited to the environment. This is supposed to shock, but cause inner turmoil between right and wrong, not to romanticize mental illnesses. Thank you for reading.

The police officer told me to stay in the car, to not try to escape. I’m covered in dry, sticky blood of my dog. My heart sinks and feels as if it has been stolen.

I almost killed Stella. My Stella. My little baby that has pledged her life to help me. And I almost killed her.

My lip begins to quiver for what seems to be the hundredth time today. Luckily, the ambulance rushed over in time to stabilize Stella, her injuries now moderate instead of severe. I can't seem to stop the gushing tears slipping from between my eyelids.

The fog in my brain is pulled out when I feel the police cruiser moving. I watch as the two male officers get settled in the front seats, chatting about what they’ll have for lunch. A surge of blatant anger nearly escapes my lips, but I bite down on my tongue. Yelling won’t do any good. I am guilty.

Should I ask where we’re going? Well, that’s clear enough: the police station. The main thing that I want to know is what’s going to happen to me. I’ve never been detained before, nevertheless pulled over onto the side of the road.

“What’s going to happen?” I speak softly, almost too quiet for them to hear through the steel grate between us.

The passenger officer tilts his head towards me a bit. Is that annoyance in his eyes? “Ma’am, please remain quiet and this will all be easy for you.”

Fidgeting with my handcuffs, I glance down at the blood on my hands. “Can-can I wash up, please? I don’t feel comfortable,” I plead, wanting to have this event wiped out of my mind so that I can see Stella again.

He sighs heavily. “It’s not our job to make you comfortable, ma’am.”

And that was the end of our conversation.

I try to keep calm by watching the trees fly by, trying to suppress my memories of her bloody, broken body. A sob wracks my body, bringing out another sigh from the officers in front.

“The water works won't get you nowhere, ma'am,” the driver scolds.

Guilt hits me like a truck. Even though he's being a complete douche, he's right. I need to keep a level head to keep from spending years in jail for animal abuse.

_But you deserve it._

Cringing, I shake my head, swiping the tears off of my cheeks. The pills are supposed to fix me, supposed to make me normal. I take my pill in the morning, every day.

_Pills don't work on me._

My eyes flit all around the car, searching for the real source of the male voice. The officers up front are chatting about a football game and all the windows are rolled up. I glance at the radio communicator, instantly blaming that.

_“You may experience voices, if you already haven't,” the doctor says._

No, no, no. I'm not crazy. I'm _not_ crazy. It's the radio making that noise. Some other officer talking through it.

We arrive at the local police station, the officers wasting no time in dragging me from the car. Their hands are like iron grips on my biceps, crushing and twisting the muscles underneath. I resist a whimper, not wanting them to scold me again with their ignorance to this situation.

The cool fan in the front office dries the sticky blood stuck on me, drying my remaining tears. People’s eyes widen as they take in my bloodied appearance, resentment in their eyes already.

I catch snippets of their whispered sneers.

“-of course she's black-”

“-disgrace-”

“Murderer.”

I cast my eyes down involuntarily, locking up my mixed emotions. They don't know me; they only know what they think. I'm a black woman walking into the police station covered in blood, and they assume that I've committed a crime.

_Because you have. You worthless shit, you almost killed the only thing that loved you._

My throat is so raw that the jerking of my vocal cords to sob hurts. I'm not crazy. It's just my thoughts sounding like a man’s voice. I wouldn't be surprised if I popped a vessel in my eye from crying so much in the past few hours.

The officers sit me down in a tiny room with a large, tinted window on one side. I’ve watched shows and movies before. They’re watching me. A quick tiredness overcomes me and I slump down in the metal chair. My handcuffs are linked onto the table by a chain by one of the officers.

They both leave me alone for approximately five minutes. I wonder if this is a technique they use to break people into admitting they’re guilty, even though I have no intention of begging for my freedom. I deserve this. I hurt Stella. I’m an animal abuser.

A metal door in front of me opens to reveal a plain officer and someone behind him. The officer sits down in one of the two metal chairs in front of me, dropping a file down, making me jump. The man behind him is everything opposite of the officer. He’s wearing a rather daring black leather jacket, a faded dark pair of pants, and a simple white dress shirt underneath his jacket. By the looks of it, he must be in his mid-forties or something with some thin lines around his eyes, yet a full head of midnight hair and caring dark brown eyes. His most obvious trait is his thick stubble with speckled grey amongst the black. He sits down next to the officer.

“Hello there, Miss McKinley,” the man in the leather jacket speaks deeply, in a quite charming Southern accent. “I am Dr. Jeffries, here to evaluate your mental state.”

I glance from his kind, yet intense gaze, to the officer’s judging one. My throat is so raw from crying that I only find myself nodding, eyes glued to the metal table where my bloody hands are.

He shuffles some papers around, looking through the file. “It says here, Miss, that you recently were admitted to the Pence Hospital. Is that correct?” I nod. “Would you care to explain further?” I shake my head, making him sigh lightly. “You have quite the health history, might I say.”

I yank my head up, seeing that the doctor had relieved himself of his jacket and rolled up his white dress shirt sleeves to his elbows. It suits him.

His eyes study me for a moment, but not in a way that makes me uncomfortable. As if he’s trying to see past my impassive facade. He suddenly turns to the officer next to him, “Officer Brantley, would you mind giving us some privacy for a while?”

Glaring with cold, dark eyes, the officer nods and exits the room. I immediately feel more relaxed, yet still tense with the doctor’s eyes watching my every move.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but I must inquire you about a few unpleasant topics,” he says sincerely. Noticing that I’m not going to respond, he puts down the papers. “You nearly killed your dog, Miss McKinley. Do you have anything to say in your defense?” I shake my head, not meeting his gaze. He leans forward slightly. “And why is that?”

“Because I’m guilty,” I rasp, biting down on my bottom lip furiously to keep the tears in. My teeth tear through my dry lips, but I welcome the distraction.

“If you intend to harm yourself, please do not,” he says quietly, making me look up into his kind eyes. “I am here from the Saint Marie’s Mental Institution, Miss. I’m here to get you where you’re safe, not in a jail cell for committing a crime that was in your head.”

I nod, releasing my bleeding lip. “I had a normal life, before all this,” I whisper, feeling defeated.

He returns my nod, reaching into an inside pocket. “I know, and that’s why I’m here, to get you back on your feet to your normal life again.” His fingers fish out a handkerchief and he puts it in my chained, shaking hand. He doesn’t move his hand, letting it grip my hand through the handkerchief. “But you must trust me in order to help you.”

“I don’t know if I can trust my mind, though,” I say with a sudden sob. He releases my hand so that I can wipe away my tears and then the blood on my lips.

His doctor side comes out. “I need you to provide me with details that will help you avoid a trial and settle for a hearing. Now, how are you feeling since taking the Haloperidol?”

“Honestly, I feel just tired hearing its name,” I confess, earning a smile from him. “I’ve been exhausted since starting it, less hungry, and a few aches in my joints.”

He scribbles down some notes and gives me an encouraging nod. “The aches in your joints is not uncommon with those who are on the thin side of the scale. Your starting weight of the pill had been one-thirty, now within two weeks you are just one-ten. I would say, whomever your doctor was who prescribed these pills did not take in the contradicting ingredients with your Epilepsy medicine.”

That last doctor had almost sounded like he was accusing me rather than diagnosing me. I find an odd pleasure of Dr. Jeffries implying his distaste for the other doctor’s ways.

“May I call you Katherine?” he gently requests. I simply nod. “What do you want to come from the hearing? Other than your innocence, of course.”

_Don't trust the bastard doctor. He's here to destroy us._

Blinking several times, I scratch the side of my temple as if I'm scratching the thoughts out. “I - um.” He leans his head forward, worried and expectant. “That I'm not insane.”

He sighs. “You are not insane, Katherine.” I like how he says my name in his soft, yet firm voice. “But we must plead insanity for you to avoid jail time. The people who don't understand your condition will call it insanity, yes, but you are not insane.”

“Are you studied in psychology and all that, Doctor?” I wonder out loud.

A knowing smile lights up his face. “I majored in mental health for about six years, medicine for another six, but I had served in Britain’s military for five years, and now I've been a doctor at Saint Marie’s for thirteen years.” He raised his dark eyebrows with a smile. “At I qualified for your case?”

Blushing, I fiddle with the handkerchief. “I-I didn't mean . . . I just don't want to be crazy,” I whisper the last part. My next words flood from my mind. “I had been happy at my publishing job, worked there for two years until . . . Then I planned on going to college studying zoology. But . . . ,” I dab at my tears, “they probably will never let me near another animal after this.” My fingers run over the dried blood sticky on my hands.

His eyes miss nothing. “Perhaps I can persuade them to get you cleaned up,” he offers.

Standing up, he raps his knuckles on the door a few times then waits. It opens to reveal the same officer from earlier in the car, telling me to hold my tears. They exchange a few words, the officer irritated and Dr. J calm and insistent. Finally, he turns to me with a triumphant smile, the officer walking past him to unchain me from the table, but not from the handcuffs.

“She needn't those, Officer,” Dr. J says with exasperation. “She's obviously sick and weak.”

The officer chuckles darkly. “Not sick and weak enough to slice her dog up, Doc. She might slice you up if you turn your back.”

I stare down at my hands, the officer gripping my arm tightly. Dr. J steps towards the officer. “You will remove those handcuffs because she is of no threat to me. Her mind is a fragile thing right now. The blood on her body will not help her be any more stable, sir.”

“Whatever, man.” The officer lets go of my arm to unlock my handcuffs. “Your funeral.”

I flex my hands, rubbing the sore bruises around my wrists. “Thank you,” I murmur.

“Don't thank me, thank your loving doctor,” the officer sneers.

Gathering courage, I give him my strongest glare that I could muster. “I wasn't talk to _you_.”

_We’re free. Grab his throat. Hit him._

_Kill him._

I give a desperate look to the doctor and quickly excuses us, heading towards the single restroom for one person at a time. He ushers me inside and locks the door behind him, turning to face me with a concerned look.

“What's wrong, Katherine?” he asks, eyes begging for a straight answer.

Gripping the sink’s corners in front of the mirror, I close my eyes. “The-I have these moments of, um, a person talking to me, but they're not in front me.”

There's a presence behind me, the air warm on my back and a light breath on my neck. “That's a symptom of schizophrenia. Why didn't you tell someone about the voices?” I open my eyes to look in the mirror, seeing him a foot behind me, his eyes connecting with mine. “I'll be your doctor from now on, but I expect you to tell me _everything_. If your ankle hurts, tell me. If you feel funny, tell me. If you’re sad, tell me.” He rests his hand on my shoulder. “Now let’s clean you up, dear.”

He sets me down on the closed toilet next to the sink while he uses his damp handkerchief to sponge off the blood. As if knowing that I don't want to listen to my thoughts, he talks about life at the institute. Every patient tends to be kind, the nurses can be a bit cold, but they really do care.

“Will I see you there?” I ask with undisguised hope. He's kind and cares about my well being, it seems.

His damp handkerchief rubs my fingers while his other hand holds my own hand still. “Yes, but I have nearly fifty patients to see to weekly. Our time will be limited. Every one of my patients sees me twice a week-Monday and Friday. Mondays is more of a check-up, just the patient talking with me and the usual blood pressure and pulse checking business.” He scrubs underneath my nails, absorbed in his work. “Then I do a general head to toe physical examination on Fridays.”

I let him move onto my other hand after he soaks the cloth again. His hands are cold and smooth. “Are all your patients women?” I avert my gaze from his intense one.

“No. I treat men in the South Ward during the weekends.” He chuckles. “Though I find the women more bearable.”

My lips twitch just a bit. This is the first time that I've relaxed since the seizure, since I was diagnosed. He surprises me when he rests his cool hand. I raise my flitting eyes to his still ones, all his attention on me.

“You have a fever, most likely from the stress.” He sighs.

“That feels nice,” I hum, closing my eyes, all the stress materializing away.

I hear him chuckle. “You'll be a unique patient, I think, Katherine.”


End file.
